


Body of Proof

by Lulzy (likelolwhat)



Series: For the Love of a Meme [19]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Adrenaline sex, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Body Differences, Body Hair, Community: skyrimkinkmeme, Cultural Differences, Dirty Talk, Elves have sensitive ears, Love Bites, M/M, Mer are never ticklish, Post-Coital Cuddling, Power Dynamics, Skyrim Kink Meme, mildly, though Fasendil tries his best to eliminate them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-21 01:16:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3672027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likelolwhat/pseuds/Lulzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Most Nords would be uncomfortable, serving under an Altmer Legate — even in the Legion.</p><p>Hadvar, however, is not most Nords.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Body of Proof

**Author's Note:**

> De-anoning from the skyrimkinkmeme, [this prompt](http://skyrimkinkmeme.livejournal.com/4941.html?thread=11215693#t11215693).
> 
> It asked for a same-sex couple exploring the differences in their bodies during sex.
> 
> This fic is in the same universe as and comes before ["Guardian"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3662280).

The first time was rushed, in the wake of a victory against a Stormcloak patrol. It had been close, as many of their soldiers had been pulled away to defend Whiterun per General Tullius' command. What little filtered to them from the front lines was that the Dragonborn had finally forced Balgruuf to pick a side, and the stalemate — and uneasy peace in the central Hold — had disintegrated almost too fast to move the troops.

They heard little for a long time. Fasendil ordered everyone left to stay put until further orders came, but then the Stormcloak scout had stumbled across their camp and, by fleeing, drawn them into a battle with his patrol. It was a tough fight that whittled down their manpower even more; but at least the vulnerable camp remained undiscovered for the moment.

It helped that Hadvar was there, newly assigned to the camp by the General himself now that he would not be leaving Solitude anytime soon. The Nord Quaestor was a damn good soldier and fighter. He would go far, of that Fasendil was sure.

It wasn't just because the post-battle high had drawn the two together, either. Fasendil had found lovers in the ranks before, but most of them were one-offs (like he had thought Hadvar was at first) and he always stressed it afterward that finding comfort in the arms of a superior officer wasn't the path to a quick promotion.

Hadvar was one of the few who got that message instinctively, even going so far as to ask if the Legate really thought that little of his worth outside of his rank. It was a pleasant surprise. Even in the Legion, the Nord soldiers tended towards various degrees of cohesive exclusivity, and there was rarely room for any other race within their social circles. Not Altmer, certainly. It amused Fasendil to think that the hated Thalmor shared that trait. They just took it to Oblivion and back.

So he _was_ surprised that Hadvar was different. Not just different, but proud of his difference.

Fasendil suspected that was why his nose was so crooked.

He'd expected that to be that, since the Quaestor showed no interest post-fucking in wheedling any favors, just carefully dabbing a healing potion on their respective wounds (he left the bites along his own collarbone alone, but the scratches left behind in their frenzy were all treated) and leaving with the careful walk of one who has just been laid over a map table and fucked senseless.

They'd had no time and no need at that point to do anything but sate their lust.

But a week later, as reports began to trickle in from Whiterun, painting a sketchy picture of a Hold barely kept from falling to the Stormcloaks by the timely arrival of the Dragonborn, Hadvar came to him again.

He was holding the latest missive in his broad hands, the seal indicating it came from one of the other Legates and not General Tullius. "Legate," he murmured unnecessarily as Fasendil took it and broke the wax, scanning the familiar writing of Legate Cipius. Something about returning his soldiers to him, said in the most roundabout way, of course. He paused when he came across the word Dragonborn, skipping back up to read from the start of that paragraph.

"The Dragonborn has been promoted, it seems," he said, well aware that Hadvar had not left. He had not been dismissed.

"She did win the battle nearly singlehandedly, I've heard," Hadvar supplied.

"Yes, well. She was also late, and many of our Legionnaires and more of the Whiterun guard died because of it." He was well aware that a bitter note had crept into his voice. That a mere girl with not a scrap of discipline could climb her way up the ranks despite flaunting the rules was... aggravating. He looked up sharply. "That does not leave this tent unless the General himself asks you directly, understand?"

Hadvar saluted. "Yes, Legate." Then his voice went soft in a way that reminded Fasendil (rather awkwardly) of his moaning of the week before. "I actually agree. She's more mercenary material than anything else."

That got the Legate's attention. "You know her?"

"Knew, Legate. We helped each other escape Helgen. She was just a slip of a thing, then. Before she started slaying dragons. Had that smart mouth, though. Kept making sarcastic remarks the whole way."

"Interesting." Fasendil stroked his chin. "I much more appreciate a good soldier who can follow directives than some otherworldly hero without sense." Too late, he realized that he was referring to Hadvar himself.

The Nord realized too, a flush further coloring those ruddy cheeks. He was handsome, in a rustic way. So different than sharp-boned, elegant Altmer. Hadvar shifted, either uncomfortable or aroused. Either way, the subtle movement revealed a line of fading bruises along his collarbone.

Jealousy flared in Fasendil's heart, but it left as quickly as it had come when he realized they were the marks of his own teeth, still there after so many days. Hadvar hadn't healed them.

_Why was I jealous? Would I have been angry, if they had not been mine?_

"Legate?" Hadvar's voice was soft again. Fasendil's mind conjured the image of him writhing on his back against the very map table that now separated them, entirely of its own accord.

He coughed. Now or he would never have the opportunity to try again. "Quaestor... Hadvar. I must admit, I am very attracted to you."

Hadvar turned an interesting shade of pink. "Legate...?"

He held up a hand. "Fasendil, please. I do not wish to make you feel obligated." He stood up and was suddenly aware that, however tall Hadvar was, he as an Altmer still towered over him. He planted his hands on the map and leaned forward to ease the difference. "Just as I refuse to promote my lovers merely for being my lovers, I also abhor the idea of coercion, or 'duty', or anything other than full consent. If you do not wish to participate, you may leave now and we will never speak of it again. I can even get you reassigned if that is what you—"

"Fasendil."

"What?"

Hadvar stepped around the table, loosening the neck of his uniform and displaying his bite marks more openly. "I liked what we had. I would like to have it again. If it's not going to cause a problem for you, of course. And no, I'm not worried about you using your rank against me. You're a good person, Fasendil."

 _A good person._ Well, that was a new one. He'd been called a good soldier, when he first joined the Legion. So good, in fact, that he was kept on even as the Great War raged and every other Altmer in Cyrodiil (including his own, aging parents) became a target of suspicion. He straightened and pushed those thoughts away as Hadvar approached him, staying still and letting the Nord take the initiative.

And he did.

First those large, calloused hands alighted where Fasendil's red and brown undertunic emerged from under the metal cuirass, then drifted up, brushing over his jaw. Brown eyes were staring into his gold ones, not watching where his fingers traced the contour of the Altmer's jaw — making him swallow reflexively — and up to his pronounced cheekbones. Hadvar moved closer, eyes still locked, and, laying his right hand flat against the Legate's cheek, reached around the back of his neck to pull him closer with his left.

Their lips met slowly, at first. Fasendil had to crane his neck to reach, but then he had the idea to kick off his heavy boots and that made it considerably easier. Hadvar standing on his tip-toes helped too, and soon Fasendil's eyes had fluttered closed, letting himself get lost in the feel of an unfamiliar man.

Hadvar's lips were more bow-shaped and full than his own tightly drawn mouth, and he relished in their softness as he finally brought his arms up to loop around Hadvar's waist and draw him flush. A gasp came from the Nord, and Fasendil opened one eye to discover that the sharp steel ridges on the front of his Legate's armor were pressing against Hadvar's thinner leather uniform, causing no small amount of discomfort if the look on Hadvar's face was anything to go by. They drew apart and, without a word, both started removing their second skins. Hadvar went over to the tent flap after he was free of his boots, drawing it closed and tying the strings together from the inside so one would have to work to disturb them.

"Good idea," Fasendil called as he shimmied out of his undertunic, leaving him in only short doeskin breeches.

Hadvar glanced back, a rare smirk on his face and obviously about to say something teasing, but he froze when he saw Fasendil. Slowly, he straightened, turning fully and openly examining the Altmer's body. Though his expression was curious and admiring in equal amounts, Fasendil found himself flushing under the scrutiny.

"Ah, it appears I have you at a disadvantage," Hadvar said finally, eyes flicking back to his Legate's face after a long moment spent glued on his still-covered groin and the erection Fasendil couldn't keep from making itself known.

"Y-yes." Fasendil licked his lips. He was annoyed that he had suddenly lost all finesse when faced with this soldier's obvious interest.

Hadvar came around the table again, pieces of his uniform falling behind him as he went. His hands were deft, fingers working the laces so quickly that Fasendil had to admire it. He stood before Fasendil again, but he had gone a step further and his smalls pooled at his feet before he stepped out of them and kicked them away.

The Nord's body was... different. Taut muscles bunched under his skin, muscles that Fasendil immediately wanted to touch. Not just at his arms, which Fasendil had known of before, but across his chest, his neck, his powerful legs. A healthy coat of hairs, brown as the ones on his head, dusted his chest and trailed down to his—

 _Oh._ Fasendil's head swam. _That cock._

Hadvar chuckled, making the thick, fully-erect instrument bounce invitingly. He stepped forward again and Fasendil brought up his arms automatically, running his hands over Hadvar's sides and getting another, breathier chuckle in return. "Ticklish," he said, an easy, lopsided grin taking over his face.

Ticklish. Fasendil smiled. Altmer as a rule were not, and none of his Bosmeri lovers were either. He wondered if Sevan would have any insight on the matter whenever they saw each other again...

Still, he brought his hands up and out, feeling along the hard slopes of Hadvar's arms and holding their hands together. Side by side, his gold, slender fingers next to Hadvar's pink, wide digits, he found that they were equally calloused on the underside.

It just increased the sensation, as far as he was concerned.

His thoughts floated back to that magnificent cock, and he swallowed hard. "Bed. Now."

Hadvar, who had been watching their fingers intertwine with a mild interest, looked up with a grin. He needed no further prodding, drawing Fasendil along as he walked backwards, hitting the bed and falling back. He did not pull Fasendil down with him, just lay there sideways across the frame, staring up at his Legate with pupils wide but eyes themselves hooded.

Fasendil, for his part, swayed on his feet, breeches suddenly far too tight. While he struggled out of them, Hadvar shifted up the bed, reclining on it properly now and reaching for the Altmer just as he was finally free.

He let himself be tugged down, lying alongside Hadvar and stroking the soft chest hairs. Hadvar's cock poked against his thigh, and he reached down with the other hand to weigh it in his palm.

Heavy. Heavy and hard and pulsing gently beneath his loose grip, just like he liked it.

"You don't have any body hair?" Hadvar whispered into his ear, sending a pleased shiver through his frame and making his toes flex. The Nord sounded confused.

Fasendil turned his head and met Hadvar's eyes, resting his head on the pillow. He got this question a lot from his non-Altmer lovers. "No, Altmer in general only have hair on the top of their head and—" He reached down with his other hand to grasp Hadvar's and move it to the base of his cock, gasping when the Nord's fingers curled around his shaft like they belonged there. "— _here_. Some of us can grow beards, though."

In response, Hadvar propped himself up and grazed his mouth along Fasendil's jaw. The sensation of stubble scraping along his hairless face was not unpleasant. "That's nice," he murmured, managing to sound neither sincere or sarcastic, but neutral. Before Fasendil could so much as grumble, the fingers left his cock and found his sac, rolling it around gently.

"Hnn." Fasendil's eyes slipped shut again and he arched into the touch.

"Lube would help, I should think," Hadvar murmured as he leaned over Fasendil, reaching towards the nightstand. His breath tickled Fasendil's other ear, and it flicked of its own accord even as his toes curled again.

Hadvar paused, staring at the ear that had nearly whacked him in the face.

"In the top drawer," Fasendil said, more in the mood for a swift fuck than explaining _that_ particular racial difference.

"Right." Hadvar propped himself up and leaned over Fasendil, who shut his eyes again and breathed in the man's musk. He even smelled like a warrior.

Soon Hadvar was back with the lube, which was one of the large-bottled varieties out of the Imperial City. Fasendil didn't like to run out. The Nords, for all their reputation, only had the tiny glass ones that were used up in one night.

"Umm..." he ventured, and Fasendil opened one eye, then the other at the man's tone. Hadvar was sitting up, looking from the uncorked bottle to Fasendil's face.

And Fasendil only suspected the Nord was a virgin for the briefest second before he realized what the actual problem was.

"You want to top or should I?"

"Well, I do recall you making the most delightful noises as I fucked you senseless last week..." Fasendil drawled.

To his credit, Hadvar only cleared his throat awkwardly. He dipped his fingers into the lube, gathering a generous amount, and was leaning forward to rub it over Fasendil's cock when the Altmer spoke again, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice.

"...so I'm _most_ interested in what you can get out of _me_."

Hadvar looked even more unsure at that prospect. "But, Legate—"

Fasendil dropped his pitch, leaning towards Hadvar and purring, "Not even a little intrigued at the thought of fucking your Legion superior into the mattress with that huge, _gorgeous_ cock of yours, hmm? Think of it: I'm on my hands and knees, begging you for more while you give it to me. Your hands — _mmm_ — those hands gripping my hips, spreading me open and leaving both of us oh so satisfied?"

He smiled as the expression on the Nord's face flitted between lust, indecision and embarrassment before finally settling on a primal hunger mixed with determination. "Yes. Get on your knees, Fasendil." His voice was strangled; he was obviously uncomfortable with giving the Altmer, or maybe anybody, orders.

But Fasendil obeyed, shifting around with grace and pressing his upper body to the mattress, ass in the air. While his head rested on one arm, he reached over with the other and plucked the lube bottle from Hadvar's hands. The man had been moving to prepare Fasendil himself, but the Altmer intended to put on a little show.

Carefully he poured the lube onto his fingers with one hand, letting Hadvar take the bottle back to keep it from falling over when he was done. He spread his knees, fully aware of his long curved cock jutting down towards the mattress, and reached back with his free hand, teasing about his entrance.

"Oh..." Hadvar moaned, taking himself in his still-lubed hand and pumping, once, twice, then showing his admirable restraint by letting go.

Fasendil watched Hadvar's face as he circled his puckered hole with one finger, slowly teasing into opening. A small part of him wanted to hurry, but he clamped down on it, focusing on the hitch in Hadvar's breath and the tremble in his hands as they bunched into fists on his knees. Such willpower! Fasendil wiggled his hips and let out a low moan — entirely genuine — as the first of his fingers slipped into the abyss, but Hadvar did not give in. _Interesting._ He wanted Hadvar to cum inside him, so Fasendil gave up the game and focused on stretching himself wide enough to take that cock. Two fingers later he found the sweet spot, brushing up against it just enough to elicit another throaty moan before withdrawing his hand entirely. "Ready, love?" he murmured.

"I should be asking you that," said Hadvar with a disbelieving shake of the head, but he shifted into position, lubing his cock for good measure before re-corking the bottle and setting it on the floor.

"Hah. I'm more than ready."

That was what Hadvar needed, apparently, because he shifted forward and gripped Fasendil's hips, lining himself up.

Fasendil took a deep breath and pushed down — even with just the spongy tip pressed against his well-lubed hole, that cock was big for him — so that when Hadvar pushed, steady and slow, the act was decidedly easier on the both of them.

Hadvar was chanting Mara's name in between the groans as he slid in, and if Fasendil craned his head he could see his lover: head tucked into his chest, hair wispy about his head, and ecstasy etched into every corner of his face.

"Beautiful," he sighed, for he was: plain-faced Hadvar was truly beautiful then.

His backside burned and Hadvar's grip on his hipbones was a bit too tight, but suddenly that burn turned into star-bursting pleasure as he arched his back and the new angle made the blunt head of Hadvar's cock prod firmly against the sweet spot. He was shorter than Fasendil, but wider as well. The Altmer had only enough time to wonder which kind of cock was more pleasurable for the one being fucked before the Nord pulled back and thrust in again and it was decided for him: _Hadvar's_.

Their moans and grunts combined into one entity as Hadvar found his pace. Bless him, the man found the coherence to take it leisurely; at least until Fasendil demanded faster. Hadvar obliged.

Fasendil knew Hadvar was closer than he was, and he didn't want to be left holding his cock if the young man was too exhausted to help him after. That had happened more than once, with other lovers long dead and gone. So he lifted his head off his arms and rocked back, wrangling a gasp from Hadvar who then leaned over Fasendil's back and — _bless him, bless him_ — nibbled on the Altmer's long tapered ear. He didn't even have to ask, as he had been planning to; nor did he have to ask for Hadvar to stay there, hard furred chest against his smooth skin, one muscled arm supporting most of his weight while the other came up to pump Fasendil's cock, every sound he made going straight from the mer's ear to his core as they rocked together.

Heat pooled in his belly, making him tense, and he barely heard Hadvar's long groan because he had reached the edge and explosions were going off behind his eyes. One last thrust of Hadvar's pushed him over, and he squeezed his eyes shut tighter as the orgasm ripped through him, painting the sheets with cum.

All through it he was aware that Hadvar had stilled, burying his face in his neck. Luckily he did not bite — his uniform did not conceal as well as Hadvar's had — but rather remained there, moaning and shuddering through the spasms as Fasendil milked his cock of cum. The Legate supposed he wasn't _that_ surprised how quiet Hadvar was even while cumming. The Nord was full of surprises — including that he had managed to not collapse on Fasendil and was in fact pulling out gently, rolling to the side and lying there quietly.

After a long moment, Fasendil shifted to his side, reaching out to run his fingers along Hadvar's jaw, turning him away from staring at the ceiling to focus on him. "Hey. Are you okay?"

Hadvar blinked, apparently startled by the question. "Hm? Yeah, I'm fine." His accent was even thicker post-sex. Interesting.

"Do you want to stay here tonight? It's getting late." The light filtering through the tent's canvas was getting weaker.

The relief shone so brightly in Hadvar's brown eyes that Fasendil decided not to ask. "I suppose we are going to need to move eventually, but for the moment..." He scooted closer to Hadvar, out of the sticky stain left by his own cum, and gathered the Nord in his arms, pulling the blanket from the foot of the bed over them both. Hadvar tucked his head under Fasendil's chin and let out a shuddering sigh.

"I'm here if you want to talk about it," he offered, but Hadvar said nothing, just let out a noncommittal noise.

He drifted off into a doze, but it was uneasy. He always tossed and turned every night before finding a good position to fall asleep in, but Hadvar's body pinned him down. The Nord, meanwhile, had fallen asleep easily. Luckily he didn't snore, just had the occasional hitch in his even breath against Fasendil's bare skin.

The Legate woke in the early morning to a numb arm. Knowing the pain was preferable to losing a limb, he eased out from under Hadvar's heavy body and endured the stabbing needles sensation with stoicism. He needed a bath to wash the cum off his belly and his ass, but he didn't want to leave Hadvar alone, either, with whatever it was that was haunting him.

 _Ridiculous,_ he thought. _He's a bloody Legionnaire, he can handle waking up alone. If I know anything about Nords it's that they don't like coddling or pity._

So he left to oversee the camp, and if the scouts side-eyed him and whispered behind his back, he got them in line with a glare and the threat of extra work. He took his bath quickly, remembering at the last minute that Cipius was probably expecting a reply.

He returned to the command tent, pushing aside the flap to find Hadvar on his hands and knees under the map table, reaching for a discarded bracer. He was still naked, a fact he only seemed to realize when Fasendil cleared his throat and pointedly tied the flap closed again. "You're lucky it was just me," he said lightly as Hadvar scrambled to put on the uniform pieces he had collected. He was still missing the other bracer.

"I suppose they all know," Hadvar groaned into his hands when he was done.

"Probably." Fasendil stroked his chin, spotting the forgotten missive from Cipius on the table where he had left it. "I wasn't exactly quiet last night. You though. I'm impressed."

The startled look Hadvar shot him was... concerning. "Force of habit."

"Hm. Whatever this is you're dealing with, it's not going to affect your duty, correct?"

"What? No! I was just..." He trailed off.

Fasendil arched an eyebrow, waiting. There was something that Hadvar wanted to say, and he'd be damned if he missed it.

"...I wanted to cuddle, but I wasn't sure if you'd accept if I asked." Hadvar was flushed pink, and Fasendil couldn't believe his ears. "I've never been with a non-Nord before. In our culture it's a universal thing that people wind down after sex, especially great sex. I didn't know if you'd know. Legate."

Although the compliment to his prowess was welcome, Fasendil was a bit insulted that Hadvar hadn't had faith in him (never mind that he _hadn't_ known about that bit of Nord wisdom). More importantly, at least this miscommunication could be fixed. "Ah. I see. You're right, I didn't know. But that doesn't mean that you have to be afraid to ask." He gentled his voice. "Like I said, I'm here if you want to talk. About anything. And I actually quite enjoy cuddling, by the way."

Hadvar nodded, digesting this information. "So, what exactly is going to change now that _this_ —" he waved a hand in the air, "—is common knowledge?"

"The soldiers who have been assigned to me long enough will know better than to make an insinuations about sleeping your way up the ranks, if that's what you're worried about," Fasendil said bluntly but not unkindly. "And they'll teach the others if they start anything. Actually, I suspect you might be pleasantly surprised at the camp's reaction."

"And us?"

"Us..." That word made Fasendil's heart clench, reminding him too much of what he had lost in the cycles of short mortal generations. He brushed the feeling aside, hoping the grief hadn't shown on his face. "I'll leave it up to you. I'm certainly not adverse to a... more thorough exploration of our dynamic. If you want. In private, we are equals, but do remember that I still outrank you in public."

"Of course, Fasendil."

Smart man.

Hadvar smoothed his hair down and left the tent, having found the other bracer at last. Fasendil could hear the cheers and good-natured catcalls erupt from the camp — yes, everyone had heard — as Hadvar left, and the distinctive sound of him being slapped on the back. With a quirk of a smile, he turned back to the missive from Cipius and set about reading it fully for the first time.

Come what may, he had a feeling he had not seen or felt the last of the Nord with the crooked nose and the soft brogue.


End file.
